


A Night Hunt

by abluevixen (knightofbows)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Friends to Lovers, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 08:43:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightofbows/pseuds/abluevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Animal attacks plague Beacon Hills, and, much to Stiles' dismay, Paige takes a sudden interest in Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> I really didn't mean for this to happen. It was supposed to be short. It really was, and then words just kept happening and the story just got away from me.
> 
> A continuation of _Prompt 27: Binoculars_ , and _Moonlit Run_.

Derek shifted his weight, and Stiles moaned. The wolf swallowed the sound and answered it with a fond laugh, sealing his mouth firmly over Stiles’ as he adjusted his hips again. They hadn’t devolved into rutting just yet, but Stiles struggled to keep from shameless, needy grinding; his dick ached and left a damp spot in his underwear with every twitch or throb. Worse than the need to come itching at the base of his spine was the pressure of Derek’s hard cock, a line of delicious heat withheld from Stiles’ touch by a metal zipper and buttoned fly.

“Take your pants off,” Stiles pleaded, breathless. “Derek, please.” He pawed uselessly along the edge of Derek’s jeans, fingertips brushing warm skin and denim alike. But when Derek pressed down with his hips, the fabric had just enough slack to accommodate Stiles’ hand, so he palmed the wolf’s ass, and Derek growled into the hinge of his jaw.

“We’ve talked about this,” Derek whispered, hot and rough into Stiles’ ear. He nibbled the lobe, and Stiles shivered.

“It’s not sex,” Stiles argued weakly. Trembling hard enough to pull his hand from Derek’s pants, he fell helpless, pliant beneath his boyfriend. “I just want to touch you.”

“You can,” Derek murmured. “Here, and here.” He brought Stiles’ hand to his lips, kissed his wrist, then guided his palm down his chest and along his flank. Peppering a trail of wet kisses down his neck, Derek sucked a mark into Stiles’ collar bone. “And no one’s stopping you from touching yourself.”

“Derek,” Stiles whined.

“Stiles,” Derek answered, and his voice was a little firmer. He kissed Stiles’ lips soundly. Absent of teasing, it grounded Stiles instead of pushing him further towards the knife-edge of release. “I’m barely controlling myself as it is. So, please, just—”

Stiles nodded, sobered by Derek’s seriousness. He’d been pushing; he shouldn’t have. “Okay,” he readily agreed. “Okay. Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“It’s just a few more months,” Derek placated. “My mom just wants to make sure—”

“I know,” Stiles interrupted. “Intimacy with your anchor requires even more control. Yeah. I was there for that talk.”

It had been an incredibly _embarrassing_ talk, regardless of its necessity. An alpha werewolf was intimidating enough, but an alpha werewolf lecturing on safe sex practices with her werewolf son was a frank and brutally honest lesson in lycanthropy Stiles never imagined learning. It did, however, speak volumes to how both she and Derek regarded Derek’s relationship with him. Stiles was Derek’s anchor. Stiles meant something. Stiles _mattered_.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t lose control, though,” Derek offered with a smirk. “I like making you come.” He rolled his hips for emphasis, growling low when Stiles’ back bowed.

“I don’t like not being able to return the favor,” Stiles answered, softly.

Nosing beneath Stiles’ jaw, Derek asked, “Let me do this for you?”

With a put-upon sigh, Stiles answered, “I swear to God, Derek Hale, the moment you’re ready, I’m going to ravish the fuck out of you.”

“I’m counting on it,” and Derek’s eyes burned bright amber as he said it. He took a breath and surged against Stiles’ lips, pushing him into the mattress hard enough for the springs to squeak. His hand, fingertips ending in claws, cupped Stiles’ face, stroking his cheek as he suckled Stiles’ bottom lip. The tips of his claws trailed harmlessly down Stiles’ neck, snagging the material of his shirt, bunched under his arms, then down the heaving plains of his torso.

Stiles raked anxious fingers along Derek’s spine, the rippling muscles of his back. Sliding one hand up to tangle in Derek’s hair, Stiles arched off the mattress, pressing impossibly closer to Derek. He whimpered, high, close to coming, into their hungry kiss. Just as Derek slipped two clawed fingers into the front of his sweats, the wolf atop him suddenly froze.

Pulling back, Stiles asked, “What is it?”

“Your dad,” Derek answered. He gave him a quick kiss, then bolted from the bed with fluttering sheets in his wake. After landing silently on the floor, he rolled under the bed, as was their custom when the Sheriff unexpectedly interrupted them.

Half a moment later, Stiles’ bedroom door creaked, and the Sheriff poked his head through the open door. “You still awake, kiddo?”

“Yeah, Dad,” Stiles answered. His rough voice, thankfully, loaned itself to exhaustion. “What’s up?”

“Just got a call,” the Sheriff answered, “so I’m heading in.” Stiles noticed the beige uniform, the glittering badge above his heart, the side-arm’s shadow at his hip. “I just wanted to let you know, in case you woke up to an empty house.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. He learned not to be so dismissive of his father’s concern after a stern talking-to from Talia. “Thanks. Be safe.”

“Always,” the Sheriff answered. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The door clicked shut, and Stiles counted to ten before leaning over the edge of the bed. He grinned when Derek’s eyes flared lantern yellow. “Looks like I have a monster under my bed,” he teased.

It was a tired joke, something from their early days of sneaking around, but Derek responded every time Stiles made it: “Better watch out, or the monster might eat you.” He shimmied out from beneath the bed and crept to the window. Discretely pulling back the curtain, he watched the Sheriff’s cruiser leave the driveway; Stiles followed the headlights slide across the wall of his bedroom.

“Did you hear what the call was?” Stiles asked. He scooted over to make room in the bed beside him. As heavy as his cock was between his legs, as much as he’d love to finish what they’d started, Stiles understood the time it took for Derek’s wolf to settle after a startle. And he’d pushed Derek once already, so—

“10-91E,” Derek said, interrupting Stiles’ conscious resignation. “And 10-91V, I think.”

“Those are animal attacks,” Stiles murmured.

From where it sat on Stiles’ nightstand, Derek’s cell phone buzzed, and the screen flashed a new text message from—Stiles squinted—Laura. Derek grabbed the phone and unlocked it with a code he’d shared with Stiles years prior. “Laura says Mom wants me to stay the night, if I can.” He turned to Stiles with worry in the arch of his eyebrows, as if Stiles would ever turn him away.

“Were you honestly planning to go home?” Stiles asked with a wry grin.

Derek’s mouth hung open for a split second before he said, “I wasn’t going to assume—” but stopped when Stiles laughed.

“Assume,” he said. “Always assume, Derek, because you’re always welcome, okay? Now get undressed and get in bed. There’s a pair of your basketball shorts stashed in my bottom drawer if you want them.”

“Do you want to, um…?” Flushing enough for Stiles to notice in the dark, he nodded pointedly at obvious shape of Stiles’ dick through the blankets as he pulled off his jeans. And Derek was so fucking adorable Stiles didn’t know what to do with him.

“Derek Hale, there is nothing on earth or in Heaven that could kill my boner for you.” When Derek chuckled, Stiles continued with genuine ease, “Another time, though. Just come to bed.”

So Derek did.

But before they got settled, Stiles said, “Oh, I got something for you. I meant to give it to you earlier, but, I, um, got distracted.” He laughed as he reached up into one of the shelves built into his headboard. He grunted with the stretch, fingers probing through the cluttered shelf before he found the piece of soft, worn leather. He awkwardly wrangled Derek’s wrist and snapped the bracelet around it. “Ta-da!” he announced.

Shaking his hand so the bracelet slid around his skin, Derek asked, “What is it?”

“Like you can’t tell,” Stiles drawled. “It’s a bracelet, dude.”

Derek laughed, amused, but not belittling. “Why?” And then, embarrassed, “Oh, God.”

It was Stiles’ turn to laugh. Because when he found the kiosk at the mall and saw all the custom braids and straps of leather, he knew, immediately, he had to get one for Derek. After years of loving him and three months of officially dating, Stiles bore several of Derek’s claiming marks beneath his clothes, but had never been able to mark Derek as his own in return.

Until now.

Instead of _DEREK_ , because that would just be too pedestrian, the bracelet read _SHADOW_.

“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to,” Stiles offered, bordering suddenly on shame. He didn’t care, really. He was just happy to give it to Derek. If he thought it enough, it might be true.

It’s not like they were exactly _out_ —Stiles’ dad didn’t even know about their relationship, though he was sure his dad suspected—but they weren’t really _hiding_ either. It just…never really came up in public. It didn’t need to. They’d been friends for years, had been seen together for years, and Derek seemed to like keeping their affection a private affair. So Stiles was fine with whatever. Really.

“I love it,” Derek said.

Stiles nervously bit his lip until Derek pried it free with a kiss.

“I really do,” the wolf insisted. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Stiles breathed. “Now sleep.” He carded his hand through Derek’s hair, and the wolf’s soft, sleepy smile was burned into his memory for safe keeping.

 

###

 

The first time he saw Paige Krasikeva approach Derek, Stiles stood at the end of the hallway with Scott and watched like the witness to a car crash. His stomach sank into his toes while his lunch pressed against the back of his throat. His world tilted on its axis, and Paige postured in annoyance despite her rosy cheeks and canted hips.

He was too far away to hear what they said—the buzzing drone of the hallway populous was too much, and he didn’t have a clear enough view to read Paige’s lips. Derek was conveniently angled away from him. But they stood close, and Derek leaned forward to accommodate the difference in their height as they talked. Then, in some grand gesture, Paige grabbed Derek’s wrist, and her hand wrapped around the leather bracelet Stiles had given him.

Derek didn’t pull away, but his hand clenched into a fist.

And Stiles loved Scott. He really did; they were almost as close as he and Derek, but sometimes Scott was recklessly oblivious. “Hey,” Scott said, elbowing Stiles’ lightly in the ribs. “Check it out. I didn’t know they had a thing.”

“They don’t,” Stiles said, impulsively.

“I don’t know, man,” Scott said. “It looks like a thing.”

“It’s not,” Stiles insisted. Then, as if to justify the strength of his stance, he added, “Derek would have told me.”

“Maybe,” Scott said. “Maybe not. Derek doesn’t seem like a guy who would kiss and tell, though. He’s a good dude.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed absently. It seemed Derek didn’t bother to tell Paige about how he kissed Stiles.

Paige stood on her toes and, from where he stood, Stiles couldn’t tell if she kissed Derek or not. His eyes burned, and when he swayed in a sudden wave of dizziness, he braced himself against a nearby locker. But then Paige adjusted her backpack and walked away from Derek, and Derek looked over his shoulder, as if he knew Stiles stood there the whole time.

“Let’s go, Scotty,” Stiles said. He grabbed Scott by the wrist and led him to class.

Stiles spotted Paige with Derek two more times in secluded hallways, and three more times in the parking lot beside Derek’s Camaro before he started questioning his place in Derek’s life. Paige climbed into the passenger seat of the sleek black car, and Stiles’ questions were answered.

When the city put a curfew into effect—the animal attacks increased in frequency and violence—Stiles was relieved. It was the first time in his life he was happy Derek couldn’t sneak into his bedroom.

 

###

 

“You’re Stiles, right? Stiles Stilinski?”

With only so much patience, Stiles slammed his locker shut and leaned against it when he turned to face Paige. She crowded into his space, much as she did whenever he saw her with Derek, but with metal against his back, Stiles had nowhere to go. “Yeah. What’s it to you?”

“You’re friends with Derek Hale?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “What about it?”

She wasn’t impressed and furrowed her brows. Annoyed or determined, he couldn’t tell, but she asked, “How well do you know him?”

“Pretty well,” Stiles answered. Well enough to bake his favorite cookies on his birthday. Well enough to know what movies and books he loved. Well enough to know how hard he liked his hair pulled when they kissed, where to touch to make his breath hitch, what to do to make him moan. Well enough to know he was a werewolf. “Why?”

“Have you noticed anything weird about him lately?”

He wore the flattest expression he could manage. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s been weird. I just wondered if you noticed.”

“Derek’s fine,” he said habitually. “And how would you even know if he’s weird? How well do _you_ know him?”

“Well enough,” she answered smugly, and Stiles had never wanted to punch a girl more in his life. But she continued, completely oblivious to Stiles’ sudden violent impulse. “Your dad’s the sheriff, right? What’s he think about these animal attacks?”

He snapped, “They’re animal attacks. There’s a curfew for public safety. The preserve’s cordoned off. Do you not watch the news?”

“Look, Stiles,” Paige sighed, “I’m just trying to look out for you, okay? Derek’s dangerous.”

“What the fuck?” he snarled. “You don’t even fucking _know_ me, and you don’t know Derek. Seriously, get your head out of your ass.”

Paige grabbed his bicep hard enough to bruise and yanked him close to her. He tried not to flinch beneath the sudden contact, the sudden ache, but he clenched his jaw and jerked once to try to free himself. She just tightened her grip. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen,” she hissed urgently. Then she shoved him, and he slumped against the lockers. “Stay away from Hale. For your own good. Really.”

When she walked away, she hugged herself. Her tough-girl act faded with her footsteps down the hall.

For the first time, and he kicked himself for his own stupidity, he wondered if the animal attacks were something more. His chest tightened.

Derek’s control might be slipping.

 

###

 

“Pack a bag, kid,” his dad said, leaning into Stiles’ bedroom.

Stiles holed himself after a weak attempt at dinner. Too many things twisted his stomach: his conversation with Paige; his dad possibly facing something that wasn’t natural; Derek possibly being behind the animal attacks; something worse being behind the animal attacks. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Derek in days—just fleeting glances in the hallways at school—and he threw up most of what he ate. Even after a visit to the doctor, he was miserable, writhing mess of anxiety.

He reminded himself of _wolf things_ , of what he’d told Derek the night of their first kiss, when Derek admitted Stiles was his anchor: _If you’re hesitant to tell me about this, you probably have your reasons._ Derek had his reasons. Derek had his reasons. Wolf things. Wolf things. If he believed it hard enough, it might be true.

“Why?” he asked. Buried beneath blankets—blankets that still smelled faintly like Derek—he kept his back to the door. He didn’t have the energy to do much else.

“You’re going to stay with the Hales for a while,” his dad answered.

“…why?”

“You remember the Maxwells?”

The hesitant edge in his father’s voice made the hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stand. He pulled back the covers and sat up, waiting with painful anticipation for the other shoe to drop; his father’s grim expression gave away nothing, so Stiles said, “Yeah. They just became grandparents, right? The daughter’s visiting from the Midwest. What happened?”

“Their house was broken into,” his dad said.

“Oh, God.” Stiles wanted to puke because he knew what came next, and all he could think about was Derek.

“They were killed. It was…bad.”

He imagined maimed corpses, half-eaten bodies, a living room swathed in blood. He imagined Mr. Maxwell firing his rifle and missing. He imagined a young mother snatching her baby and running up a flight of stairs. He imagined claws and fangs ripping through flesh; claws and fangs he’d never feared before suddenly deadly, inevitable murder weapons. “Fuck,” Stiles moaned, because he remembered Derek showing up at his house years prior, half-shifted and two seconds from feral. Derek could have killed him. Derek could have killed his father. “Fuck.”

“Whatever’s prowling the city…” His dad sighed. “It’s breaking into houses and I don’t want you alone. So while I’m working night shifts, you’ll be staying with the Hales. I’ve already worked it out with Talia.”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles said, a whimper pitching the edge of his voice. He couldn’t manage much else, but he dragged himself out of bed and began shoving clothes, his pillow, his laptop into a duffle bag. With each item, the dread grew heavier.

“I’ll drop you off on my way to work,” his dad said. “Don’t forget your toothbrush.”

“Okay,” he answered. “I’ll be downstairs, soon.”

When his duffle was filled with everything he needed, Stiles stopped abruptly when his morose gaze landed on a pair of binoculars sitting on the top of his bookshelf. They were what started this all, really; the thing that brought he and Derek together. It reminded him of his adventurer’s kit, a set of items that, over the years, had developed into a survival kit. First aid supplies, a few odds and ends, a decent hunter’s knife he got at the pawn shop downtown; basically, anything he’d need in an emergency with a werewolf best friend.

 _Boyfriend_ , he reminded himself. Derek was his _boyfriend_.

He grabbed the kit from its place beneath his bed and shoved it into his duffle bag.

 

###

 

It was a wonder how often Stiles found himself seated in the Hales’ living room and lectured, as if he was one of Talia’s own children. And maybe over the years he just organically evolved into one. He and Derek had been friends for years; he was Derek’s anchor; he and Derek were boyfriends. Though the last bit—the boyfriend bit—didn’t feel as genuine as the others. Stiles blamed it on Paige, though he wanted to blame Derek.

Looking at Derek hurt. Being in Derek’s company hurt. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d shared his secret with Paige, if Derek had somehow deemed her special enough to know about him. It sent his stomach churning and his head swimming to imagine sharing that part of Derek with someone else. That was _his_. Shadow belonged to Stiles.

“Stiles, did your father explain why you’ll be staying with us?” Talia asked. She sat in a recliner Stiles simply considered _her chair_. Positioned in a place and at an angle of power, it was the throne upon which she sat when donning the role of Alpha to her Pack. It was where she sat when she explained the danger of Derek’s shift after a torn pillow. It was where she sat when she explained the connection between _anchor_ and _sex_.

Stiles, for his part, sat on the couch, just another of the alpha’s betas with Derek and Cora on either side of him. Laura sat on a separate love seat with Uncle Peter beside her; the future alpha, and the alpha’s right hand. He nodded and said, “The Maxwells.”

“That’s right,” Talia said. Then, addressing the others as well, she said, “They’re the first human victims we know of, but it’s not a rabid mountain lion as the authorities believe. It’s one of our own.”

“Another werewolf?” Stiles asked.

“An alpha,” Uncle Peter clarified.

Adrenaline flooded his system with a rush of heat and kinetic energy. Stiles practically trembled where he sat, pinned in place by Talia’s power, but on the verge of action anyway. “My dad’s out there hunting that thing! We have to do something!” When Derek slid his hand into Stiles’ and gave it a squeeze, Stiles couldn’t stop how he squeezed back.

“We will,” Talia said. She glanced meaningfully to Uncle Peter. “We are.”

“The full moon’s tomorrow night,” Laura said, her voice hedging close to panic. “Mom, how powerful is it?”

Talia smiled warm and soothing. Even Stiles felt it, all the way down to his toes. Talia was strong. Talia was safe. Talia would take care of everything. “Not so powerful that Peter and I can’t handle it.”

“Where’s its pack?” Cora asked.

“We don’t know,” Uncle Peter said. His legs sprawled out in front of him where he slouched. His elbow rested on the armrest of the love seat, and his hand supported his head. Always striking Stiles as a bit conceited, Uncle Peter was true to form with his exasperated sigh. “We haven’t been able to find any evidence of other wolves. Just this one, rogue alpha.”

“We’re hunting tonight,” Talia explained. “And it’s important the four of you stay here. You, in particular, Stiles.”

Stiles’ throat when dry, and he swallowed hard to force down the lump suddenly in it. He was sure his spike of fear flooded the room, because Derek nuzzled Stiles’ temple and pressed closer to him. Despite his insecurity, Derek was still warm and solid. Comfort settled into his bones without his consent. “Why?” he managed without stammering.

“Because,” Uncle Peter started, then he took a slow, deep breath, closing his eyes as if to savor whatever he smelled. When his brilliantly glowing blue eyes opened, his nostrils flared, and his fangs descended. Lip curling in something akin to disgust, he said, “You’re human, and you positively _reek_ of Derek.”

Mortified, Stiles’ cheeks warmed blotchy pink. Derek once assured him it was cute, he liked it, but now, in front of Derek’s whole family, Stiles’ misery was self-consciousness—his face, his scent, his everything.

Derek grinned where he pressed his face against Stiles before kissing his hair, and Stiles only blushed deeper.

As a mercy, Laura offered, “To be fair, you smell like all of us, too. Like a Hale.”

“But mostly like Derek,” Cora added unhelpfully.

“Yeah,” Laura acquiesced. “Mostly like Derek.”

“Enough,” Talia scolded, and crimson ringed her irises. Her children hushed, and Derek tensed beneath his alpha’s displeasure just like the rest of them. To Stiles, she said, “You’re pack. Derek’s wolf has accepted you, as have ours. But because you’re human, a challenging alpha will view you as an easy target. That said, you shouldn’t be alone after sunset. You’re safest here, with us, and your father agrees.”

“But you’re leaving,” Stiles murmured. “You’re going to hunt. You won’t—”

“We can keep you safe,” Laura assured him.

“What did you tell my dad?”

Smirking, Uncle Peter said, “Only that our house is never empty. There’s always someone home. And Laura is in charge should we leave.”

With a nod, Stiles said, “Okay.”

Raising an eyebrow, Talia asked, “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles insisted. “Okay.”

 

###

 

“Your mom called Uncle Peter specifically for this, didn’t she? As back-up against this alpha.”

Derek leaned in the doorway of the guest room, the room directly across the hall from Derek’s, with arms folded across his chest. Even as a human, Stiles sensed the displeasure radiating from him, from his frown and the set of his jaw, to how the muscles of his arms twitched. “Yeah,” he said, voice tight. “Uncle Peter’s a vicious fighter. No one can watch Mom’s back better, and they’ve protected this area together for decades.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. His hands trembled as he dug a pair of sweat pants from his duffle bag. His computer sat at the foot of the bed, his phone sat charging on the night stand, and it felt so wrong to settle into a room that wasn’t Derek’s. “That’s good. That’s really good. That means they’ll take it down quick, right?”

“Hopefully.” Then, more gently, Derek said, “They’ll find it before it finds your dad. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that, Derek,” Stiles breathed.

Sighing, Derek said, “Why don’t you sleep in my room? It might be more comfortable than—”

“I’m fine in here,” Stiles insisted. “Really. I’ll be alright. You’re right across the hall.”

“I don’t want to be across the hall,” Derek answered, and he sounded on the verge of breaking. “I want to be with you. Why won’t you be with me? You’ve smelled upset for days, and you won’t—you don’t—” He growled, small and frustrated, and he dug his claws into the doorframe. The wood splintered, the paint cracked, and Stiles noticed his pointed ears, the downy soft fur that framed his face. His said his name around fangs. “ _Stiles._ ”

“It’s a lot, okay?” Stiles burst, digging frantically through is bag. He couldn’t find his sweat pants. Where the hell were his sweat pants? He knew he’d packed them… “It’s a lot, Derek, and I—I can’t—God _damn_ it!” He threw the bag across the bed and sank to the floor with knees like jelly. With his back against the bed, he slammed his skull impotently against the edge of the mattress and heaved a deep, shuddering breath.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek pleaded again. “Let me— _please_ , Stiles.”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles croaked around the pressure in his throat. A split second later, Derek effortlessly gathered and tucked Stiles against him; face against his neck, arms wrapped tightly around him, safe and solid and warm. Stiles panted, shaky and wet, against Derek’s throat, and the faint drag of claws as Derek rubbed his back slowly dissipated. The fluff around Derek’s face receded, as did his pointed ears and fangs.

“Tell me,” Derek murmured, speech no longer encumbered. “Let me help.”

“Just my dad,” Stiles said. “I’m worried that thing will kill him. He’s out there thinking it’s a mountain lion and he has no idea how much danger he’s in, but you told Paige about werewolves and I just—”

“I _what?_ ” the wolf interrupted.

“Paige Krasikeva,” Stiles said. “She must be important to you; you told her about werewolves.” He blinked away the beginnings of tears and disentangled himself of Derek’s hold, sitting heavily on the floor beside him. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t being replaced. He was Derek’s anchor. He _mattered_. Accepting Paige’s role in Derek’s life would be difficult, but he’d do it. He’d do it for Derek. He just wished he could tell his dad, too. He wanted his dad to know. Scrubbing his face, he said, “It’s okay. I trust your judgment, Derek. I always have.” But whatever else he was going to say fell flat when he finally noticed Derek’s expression: gutted and scared, mortified like when he’d shown up on Stiles’ door half-shifted. “What?” he asked, fear crackling up his spine in response to Derek’s. “What’s wrong?”

“I never told her about werewolves,” Derek said carefully.

“But she knows,” Stiles argued. “She has to, Derek. She tried to _warn_ me about you.”

Derek buried his fingers in his hair and viciously tugged. “Fuck,” he growled into his bent knees. “Fuck fuck _fuck_.”

“What’s going on between you, then?” Stiles pushed. He hurtled headlong into panic and heartbreak and nausea and only Derek saying something other than _fuck_ could stop him. “What happened?”

“Nothing’s going on between us,” Derek explained. He struggled to keep the tremor from his voice, to keep his words and his fur and his fangs in check. Watching Stiles grounded him. Stiles’ touch grounded him. So between one of Derek’s intentional breaths and the next, Stiles threaded their fingers. Derek squeezed hard, but he breathed a little easier. “She saw me. She saw me, and she’s been hounding me about it for days.”

Alarmed at the conflicting feelings the explanation stirred, Stiles put his eased heart on the shelf. If Derek said nothing happened between he and Paige, then nothing happened. That was settled. The more pressing issue was what Paige knew, or thought she knew, and Stiles didn’t need Derek to explain the what; he wanted the how. He began shouldering the burden before he even knew if it was his to shoulder. “How did she see you? You’re always so careful, Der.”

“It was Jackson,” Derek said. “Jackson’s always seeking you out, stressing you out. My wolf—” He stopped, his face crumpling into something like anguish, and dropped his gaze. “My wolf wanted to protect you, to save you from that. So I cornered him in the music hall. I thought we were alone. I thought if I scared him enough, he’d leave you alone and not mention anything. Who would believe him, anyway? I didn’t know the music room was occupied. I didn’t hear her heartbeat or smell her or, or anything. I was so focused on keeping Jackson away from you, I—”

“Derek…”

“Jackson took off, and she was standing there, staring at me,” Derek continued, curling further in on himself. “I still had my fangs. I still had my eyes. She saw me, Stiles. She saw everything.”

With tender touches, Stiles eased Derek’s hands from his hair and guided the wolf to lean into him. Instinctively, Derek nosed against Stiles’ throat, and Stiles gentled his fingers through Derek’s hair where the wolf’s had been so punishing. “That’s why she’s following you around, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Derek said. “And you were already so miserable. I could smell it on you all the way across the hall. I thought you were just worried about your dad with the animal attacks, or maybe the curfew, since I hadn’t been able to see you as much. I didn’t want to bother you with Paige. I thought I could handle it. I thought I could scare her into silence, too. But—”

“She just got more interested.”

“…yeah.” Derek swallowed audibly. “I can’t tell my mom. She’d be so disappointed. She might keep me from seeing you and I—I _can’t_ —Stiles, I—” He shoved harder against Stiles, a strangled little whimper eking from his throat.

“I thought you were seeing Paige,” Stiles admitted quietly. “I thought maybe, um, maybe something had changed between us.”

“You’re my _anchor_ ,” Derek argued. “Stiles, I need you. My _wolf_ needs you. I thought you knew that.”

“You said anchors just happen sometimes. You said anchors could shift.” The more he spoke, the more ridiculous the situation sounded, but he continued anyway. Derek had a right to know, and Stiles needed to tell him. “I thought things changed. I saw you with her so much, and then the curfew happened and I guess I thought it wouldn’t really stop you from seeing me, since nothing ever really has.”

A weak laugh puffed against Stiles’ throat. “Nothing ever really will,” Derek promised. “My mother scented another wolf in the area around the time the attacks started. She’s always known I come to you, but she wanted me home more until she figured out what was going on. She didn’t want me leading anything to you, you know?”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “Now I do.” He kissed Derek’s temple and let his heart settle. “We’ll figure out what to do with Paige. I’m sure there’s a solution.”

“My mom will keep your dad safe,” Derek stated plainly. “She and Uncle Peter won’t let anything happen to him. He’s Pack, just like you are, even if he doesn’t know it. We protect our own.”

Vividly, Stiles recalled all the times Talia guided him home, all the times Laura helped him with his homework, all the times Cora sat with him during Derek’s basketball practices. He remembered all the dinners and the holidays and the full moon runs. He remembered how they touched and held and loved him right after his mom died. And he wondered how he’d ever missed it, how he never realized he was Pack. “I know,” Stiles said.

“Come to bed with me,” Derek said, twisting his hand in the hem of Stiles’ shirt. “I miss you.”

Stiles agreed, because he missed Derek, too, and they hauled each other up with weak limbs and weaker smiles.

Derek led Stiles across the hall and into his bedroom, leaving the sterility of the guest room behind for something more familiar, something safer. They tumbled into Derek’s bed attached at the lips.

 

###

 

Talia and Uncle Peter brought the news shortly after dawn, the pair of them exhausted and haggard as they interrupted breakfast. The Sheriff would later and independently corroborate their account in a press interview that afternoon. Another attack, another family murdered in their home.

“It’s fast,” Uncle Peter said around a mug of coffee. “I’ve never seen a wolf this fast.”

“Maybe we’re not dealing with a wolf,” Laura suggested. “Maybe it’s some other kind of shifter.”

“No,” Talia insisted. “It’s a wolf.”

Stiles slid his hand into Derek’s under the table.

Cora bit her lip nervously, and Laura folded her arms.

“If Peter and I can’t solve this problem tonight, we’ll contact the other local alphas for help,” Talia declared. “I don’t imagine it coming to that, but we can’t allow the people of Beacon Hills to be endangered further. Thankfully, it only seems to hunt at night.”

“It’s the full moon, Talia,” Uncle Peter said. “We’ll have to be careful.”

“And so we shall.”

At school, Derek hovered in the periphery of Stiles’ vision and minimized the distance between them whenever possible. He lingered at Stiles’ locker, waited outside classrooms to escort him to others, and maintained small, frequent points of contact. To the average observer—like Scott—they’d simply overcome whatever disagreement had pushed them apart. For Stiles, it was a display of the depths of Derek’s acute protective instincts. Even if Stiles never knew how Derek threatened Jackson on his behalf, he’d recognize Derek’s behavior for what it was: a _wolf thing_.

So when Paige approached them in a quickly emptying hallway and Derek put himself in front of Stiles, Stiles let him. Stiles just wrapped his hand loosely around Derek’s wrist, skin and leather alike pressing into his palm, and tried to ground him. Derek had enough control to avoid maiming people and impulsively shifting, but he apparently hadn’t been able to stop from threatening Jackson. The wolf existed in a nebulous state where Stiles felt obligated to do whatever he could as Derek’s anchor to, well, anchor him.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she hissed. “You’re the one doing this.”

“Doing what?” Derek challenged.

“I’m not afraid of you, Derek Hale,” she sneered. “I know what you are, and I know what you’ve done.”

“Paige,” Derek sighed, “let this go. Whatever you think you know is wrong, alright? Whatever you believe isn’t true. It just isn’t.”

“You think he’ll protect you?” Paige demanded, jutting her chin towards Stiles. “Because he’s the sheriff’s son? He won’t. He can’t. This is bigger than the law. This isn’t just murder.”

“There’s no murder,” Stiles argued. “There are killings. Victims of animal attacks. Animals aren’t capable of murder.”

“It’s not an animal, Stiles. It’s Derek.”

Derek stiffened like a reflex.

Stiles surged around him and used his few inches of height difference to loom in Paige’s face. She was a small, petite thing; there was nothing even vaguely threatening about her save her mouth. “Watch what you say,” he snarled, low and dangerous. “Accusations like that will do more harm than good. They’re irrational and dangerous. Things are already chaotic enough.”

“You know what’s happening, don’t you?” she asked, her lip trembling. Her big brown eyes grew teary, whether from anger or betrayal, Stiles didn’t know. She sniffled, and her cheeks went ruddy. “You can’t get away with this. You’re _killing people_.”

“No.” Recognizing Paige’s fear for what it was, Stiles sighed and softened his voice, his expression. She was scared, and Stiles couldn’t entirely blame her. “ _Something_ is killing people, alright? And my dad’s trying to keep everyone safe. A lot of people are already freaked out, so don’t add to the hysteria by randomly pointing impossible fingers. Just try to stay safe, okay? Like everyone else.”

“ _What?_ ” she demanded, taking a step back. Then, she took another, and another.

“All the victims were attacked by animals,” Stiles explained. “Derek isn’t an animal, ergo, Derek can’t be the killer. Understand? So stop. Please. You’re not helping the situation.”

Paige stared between them for a few heated, tense moments before a wracked breath escaped her lungs. She spun on her heel and all but ran from them.

Derek took Stiles hand and laced their fingers. “Do you think she’ll listen?”

“And stop accusing you?” Stiles drawled. “No, definitely not.”

 

###

 

Stiles watched Derek pace the length of his bedroom from his seat on the bed. Since abandoning the guest room, they’d both been more at ease, but anxiety still bubbled beneath the surface of Derek’s wolf. Worry for his mother and uncle facing down an unknown alpha; worry for Stiles’ father; worry about Paige. Derek didn’t have to say any of it. Stiles already knew. He felt it, too. “Will you calm down, please? You’re making me nervous just watching you,” he half teased.

“I’m sorry,” Derek sighed. He rubbed his eyes then combed back his hair with twitchy fingers. “I know this must be hard for you. It’s hard for me, too, and I just—”

“Here,” Stiles offered, extending his hand. Derek approached him immediately and took it, his palm instantly warming Stiles’ perpetually chilly hands. When Stiles tugged, Derek slotted himself between his spread knees. “Instead of obsessing—because that’s my job as the skittish human—why don’t you just be with me?” He rested his hands on the wolf’s hips and pressed into their divots with his thumbs. When Derek averted his gaze, guilty, Stiles continued, “I’m your anchor, right? Let me anchor you.”

Derek’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, and Stiles saw the exact moment he relented, the precise second his pupils dilated and glowed faintly. “Okay,” Derek sighed. Then, he cupped Stiles’ face and kissed him.

Contented, Stiles hummed into the kiss and licked the seam of Derek’s mouth. With a sudden breath, Derek pushed forward and Stiles scooted back in a single, fluid motion. And when Stiles leaned back onto the mattress, Derek followed, climbing onto the bed and straddling his hips. Bright points of gold raked the lines of Stiles’ body, and he shivered beneath the scrutiny. Derek’s desire, how it matched his desire for Derek, amazed Stiles. The captivating and stunning entity that was Derek Hale somehow, some way wanted boring, drab Stiles; and loathe was Stiles to deny him.

“You’re drifting,” Derek murmured, stealing a kiss. “Come back to me.”

“Sorry,” Stiles sighed. The soft cotton of Derek’s shirt bunched before Stiles’ hands as he slid them up the wolf’s flanks. “I just, um. Sometimes I can’t believe we’re here, you know?”

“How do you mean?” The end of the question curled into the beginnings of a growl, and when Derek ducked down to kiss and nibble Stiles’ chest, he felt the pressure of his fangs. Stiles loved Derek’s wolf, though, and loved the trust between them—for Derek to reveal that side of himself, and for Stiles to feel safe.

“Just you,” Stiles stammered, breath swiftly laboring. His stomach fluttered when Derek’s lips brushed his heated skin. He tangled his fingers in his hair in some futile attempt to maintain his wits with Derek licking down the length of his body. “Everything about you. I never—” He hitched a gasp at a particularly sharp nip, groaning when Derek sucked hard enough to bruise. With a breathy laugh, he said, “I just wanted to watch the wolves, you know?”

Derek moved back up Stiles’ body and buried his shy smile in Stiles’ hair. “Am I more than you bargained for, yet?”

“Don’t quote songs to me, Derek Hale,” Stiles teased. It brought back memories of a summer spent driving the Camaro down back roads when Derek only had his learner’s permit, blasting music with the windows down, singing at the top of their lungs. Stiles wasn’t sure when he’d fallen in love with Derek, but it was during those carefree summer days when he noticed how his heart raced for new, different reasons. “But don’t mind me. I’m watching you from the closet, wishing to be the friction in your jeans.” And he pressed the heel of his palm against the line of Derek’s straining cock, again, barred behind a zipper.

“I don’t think this is how anchors work,” Derek chuckled into Stiles’ neck. As he rolled his hips against Stiles’ hand, his fangs pinched just a bit at Stiles’ throat, then he soothed the sting with a swipe of his tongue.

Careful hands cupped Derek’s face and guided him away from Stiles’ tingling neck. “Is it working, though? Because that’s what matters.” He stroked Derek’s cheek with ghosting fingertips before kissing him softly, sweetly. Derek let out a shaky breath against Stiles lips before resting his weight atop him.

“Not as well as you’d hope,” the wolf grumbled. He shimmied lower and rested his head over Stiles’ heart with an exhausted sigh.

As naturally as breathing, Stiles pet Derek’s hair, dragging fingernails gently over his scalp and smoothing the soft, dark tufts with familiar touches. “What’s on your mind?”

“Paige,” Derek said.

“You know,” Stiles said, intentionally keeping his voice light, “you might not want to mention the girl I thought you were seeing while you’re, literally, on top of me.”

“Your heart’s skipping,” Derek murmured. “You really thought I’d betray you?”

“We can discuss my insecurities some other time,” Stiles offered. “What are you worried about with Paige?”

“It’s the full moon. There’s some violent alpha running around. She’s angry.”

“She might do something reckless,” Stiles said. He groaned, frustrated and annoyed. “What are you thinking?”

“I think I need to make sure she’s not out wandering the woods.” Derek climbed off of Stiles and rearranged his clothes. How quickly he slipped on his shoes and shrugged into his jacket alarmed Stiles, so he scrambled to dress, too. “If something happens to her,” the wolf continued urgently, “it’ll be my fault.”

“If something happens to her because she’s dumb enough to run around at night with a wild animal on the loose, it’s her own fault,” Stiles argued. He grabbed Derek by the wrist and tugged to force Derek to look at him. “Do you hear me? You’re not responsible for her, Der.”

“She wants answers, Stiles. Can you really not relate to that?”

Frowning, hurt, Stiles released Derek’s wrist. “That’s a low blow. And why are you even defending her? Who is she to you?”

“No one, but it’s my family’s responsibility to protect Beacon Hills,” Derek explained. “That includes Paige, regardless of how reckless she might be.”

“Then let your mom and Uncle Peter deal with it.”

“They’re hunting. They won’t be looking out for some wayward girl.”

“You can’t go out there, Derek,” Stiles hissed. “What if the alpha finds you?”

“And what if the alpha finds Paige because I was stupid enough to let her see me?” Derek’s voice dropped into a threatening growl, and he bared his fangs. When his eyes flared, Stiles took a step back.

“Okay,” Stiles said, placating. “We’ll go look for her, alright?”

“ _I’ll_ go look for her,” Derek corrected. “You stay here.”

“ _What?!_ ” Stiles squawked. “No way! You’re not going alone. I won’t let you.”

“You’re even more vulnerable than I am with that alpha,” Derek said. “You’re human.”

“Not so vulnerable that I couldn’t have your back, Derek,” Stiles snapped. “Or have you forgotten how we met?”

“I was a kid,” Derek said, chastised. “We were ambushed.”

“I still had your back.”

Derek watched Stiles for a few moments that felt dragged for hours, and Stiles wished he could scent Derek’s emotions or hear his heartbeat. He wished he had some way to anticipate Derek’s thoughts. But then Derek sighed, strode towards him, and yanked him into a hard, urgent kiss. “Okay,” he said. “Get your things. We’ll go.”

 

###

 

Stiles tried to tell himself this was just like any other full moon run with Derek; he really did, and for a few fleeting moments here and there, it worked. Derek just refrained from a full canid transformation. He was still faster than Stiles, his vision still better, still more agile; Derek was a werewolf. And Stiles, as a human, struggled to keep pace. Thankfully, years of running with wolves trained a lot of his natural clumsiness out of him. He didn’t crash through the brush as loudly, he didn’t tire out as fast. Derek still ran loose orbits around him, dashing off into the darkness to check the area ahead before returning to Stiles’ line of sight, but it wasn’t so bad.

Derek found a fresh trail of Paige’s scent pretty quickly—it meant they didn’t have to check her house—so it was only a matter of following it. Well, until unfamiliar howls echoed through the woods, anyway. Derek froze, and Stiles did, too.

“Was that the alpha?” Stiles hadn’t known fear in the preserve since the hunter attack that brought him and Derek together. Now, his heart hammered against his ribs like a prey animal trying to escape a trap; and he felt like a prey animal, small and weak with reflexes too slow, and vision too poor. He scrambled to pull the hunting knife from his bag of supplies. No telling how useful it would be, but he felt less vulnerable with its familiar weight in his hand.

“Yeah,” Derek breathed. His ethereal gaze flicked between Stiles’ face—Stiles wore his fear openly; Derek could smell it as surely as he could see it—and his knife. “We need to find Paige. Now.”

Another howl, this time closer, tore through the night.

“Go,” Stiles said. He shoved Derek. “Go find her. I’ll catch up.”

Derek growled, “I can’t leave you alone, Stiles. If that thing—”

“I’ll be right behind you. You’re faster, Derek. You’ll get to her quicker.”

“Stiles…”

Stiles shoved him again. “Derek, go!”

Derek whimpered before he grabbed Stiles’ face roughly and smashed their mouths together in a bruising. “You keep up with me,” he growled. “But if we get separated and it finds you, you run, understand? You run back to the house as fast as you can. I’ll come for you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Derek agreed. He kissed Stiles one more time before darting off into the shadows.

Stiles took a few heaving breaths to try to slow his racing heart. The last thing he needed was a fainting spell or a panic attack. The razor’s edge of fight-or-flight sliced the fringes of his thoughts, the first trickles of adrenaline teetering him closer full panic. Brushes rustled. The wind whispered through the trees. Derek was nowhere in sight, but he knew the general direction his boyfriend went. After another moment of just breathing, Stiles ran through the darkness.

Running with the Hales not only helped him with his endurance and strength, but Stiles developed an intimate familiarity with the woods. He didn’t necessarily need to _see_ to anticipate the terrain. He knew when to jump to clear the fallen logs and boulders, he knew when to lean into a slide to sail down a slope, he knew his relation to the Hale house no matter how many turns he took.

Over his breathing, over his footfalls, he faintly heard Derek: “Paige, please. Let me take you home. It’s not safe out here.”

Stiles redoubled his pace and crashed through the brush into a clearing where Derek and Paige stood. He startled Paige—she let out a high, sharp yelp with his appearance—but he held his breath suddenly. Paige and Derek stilled, too, when another chorus of howls floated on the breeze. Stiles recognized one of wolves as Talia, and Derek’s expression hardened.

“Let’s go,” Derek said.

“No,” Paige said. When Derek reached for her, she took a few unsteady steps backward.

“Come on, Paige,” Stiles panted, unzipping his hoodie to better breathe. “There’s clearly creepy shit going on. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

“Why?” she snarled. “So Derek’s free to kill again?” Stiles and Derek’s joint silence soon crumbled her fierce determination. “Unless you’re here to kill me, too,” she murmured.

“Oh, please,” Stiles griped, limping feebly towards her. His legs felt a little weak, burning muscles on the verge of cramps. “We just want to get you home.”

“Stay away from me!” she shouted, staggering back more.

When Derek said her name again, his voice was different, skirting terror. Stiles had never heard such a note in his voice, noticed such a tremor in it. But when he looked over his shoulder to Derek, Derek didn’t focus on Paige anymore; he looked somewhere vaguely over her shoulder, somewhere in deep shadow where the full moon’s light didn’t reach. “Paige,” Derek said again.

Stiles followed Derek’s gaze, and twin spots of red came to life. Stiles stiffened and sucked a sudden breath. The unfamiliar crimson gaze sat higher than Talia ever did, and the accompanying growl wasn’t within Talia’s timbre. It was definitely _not_ Talia Hale.

“Fuck,” Stiles whispered. “Derek…”

Paige whimpered, “What…?”

“Don’t,” Derek hissed when she tried to turn around.

“Don’t look,” Stiles agreed. “Just watch Derek, okay? Go to Derek. Slowly.” Derek was further away from the alpha. Derek had faster reflexes. Paige would be safer going to Derek.

She nodded and closed her eyes. Her whole body trembled with an erratic, terrified energy, and her breath stuttered, but she did as instructed and took careful, measured steps towards Derek. She brushed Stiles’ shoulder, and he gave her hand a quick, encouraging squeeze.

“That’s it,” Derek said, even as he kept watching the alpha. “You’re doing great.”

When Paige stood somewhere between he and Derek, Stiles began inching backwards as well, impulsively tightening his grip on his knife. But then Paige let out a sudden cry and launched into a sprint for the last few yards separating her and Derek.

The alpha looked nothing like any wolf Stiles had seen: a half-developed snout, gnarled, overly long limbs, too-large fangs. It wasn’t entirely wolf, it wasn’t entirely human, and it didn’t even share the same spectrum as Derek’s shift. With ape-like movements, loping and preternaturally swift, it struck with vicious precision.

A succession of things happened suddenly, within microseconds of each other, practically simultaneously. Stiles’ reaction was a reflex, something his body jolted towards without his consent, because as Paige lurched towards Derek, the alpha cleared the meager distance between it and Paige with a single, bounding pounce. As it shoved her to the ground, Derek shifted, quick and violent, claws and fangs extending, and lunged. Right around that time, Stiles jabbed his knife with all the force he could muster.

Paige screamed with the alpha’s jaws clamped hard around her shoulder, and she scrabbled at the ground helplessly as it tried to drag her away. Before it managed more than a jerk or two, Derek’s claws raked its face. Flesh tore like paper, and blood splattered like spilled paint. Its jaws fell open and it jerked back right into the arc of Stiles’ blade, driven to the hilt with an upward thrust under its arm and into its chest.

The alpha yowled, rattling Stiles’ ribcage and wracking his brain with its roar. A stray, failing claw slammed into his flank like a battering ram, driving him across the soft earth. The impact was hard, and he spat dirt and leaves before throwing up. The forest canopy was a swirling blur of muted green with sparks of light along the edges when he rolled onto his back. He managed wheezing breaths for a few seconds, but Derek’s snarling and roars rallied him.

Curled in on herself, Paige sobbed, a bloody hand clamped over the bite. Derek stood over her, hunched low and threatening, snapping his jaws and flashing his eyes. Stiles didn’t think his posturing would intimidate the alpha, but with the knife handle jutting from its chest and the encroaching howls of Talia and Uncle Peter, it must have reconsidered. With a foaming bark, it slunk into the shadows and disappeared.

Stiles scrambled across the clearing to Paige, but jerked back when Derek suddenly rounded on him. “Derek,” he said, words weak where he tried to steady them. “Derek, it’s me.” Heedless of his vacant expression or glistening fangs, he cupped Derek’s face and traced his cheeks with his thumbs. “I need you to come back. Paige is hurt. We have to help her.”

The fur along his face receded, as did the length of his ears and his fangs. Human hands held Stiles’ wrists as Derek nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

After shrugging out of his hoodie, Stiles yanked off Paige’s shirt. Together, he and Derek helped her sit up; she leaned heavily against Derek, her head resting against his shoulder. With her torn shirt, they applied pressure to the wound while Stiles rummaged through his first aid supplies.

“We can’t stay here,” Stiles said. After pulling her ruined shirt aside, he doused Paige’s wound with some alcohol.

She hissed through the burn, clutching Derek’s wrist and burying her face against his throat.

“I know,” Stiles said. “I’m sorry. I know it hurts.” With unsteady, bloodstained hands, he pulled down the strap of her bra, then tore open a package of gauze, but froze before covering the wound. Tar-black lines radiated from the bite like lightning across a storming sky. Down her arm and her chest, like when Derek had been shot, they slowly spread.

“Stiles?” Derek prompted.

“I’m almost done,” he said. Holding the gauze in place with one hand, he taped the edges down in an efficient pull-bite-tear rhythm. Blood welled through the pads, so Stiles lined her wound with another layer of bandages and taped it tight. “There,” he said, fixing the bra strap. He tossed his supplies back in his bag. “I don’t think anything’s broken, and that should hold until we get proper help.”

“Can you stand?” Derek asked her.

With a frantic nod, Paige said, “Yeah, I think so.”

Stiles climbed to his feet and took Paige’s hand while she braced her good arm against Derek for leverage. She stumbled into Stiles, but he caught her easily and helped steady her. When a breeze drifted through the clearing and she shivered, Stiles picked up his discarded hoodie, and Derek helped her arms through the sleeves. Smiling gently, Stiles hooked the zipper and yanked it closed. He pulled the hood over her head and tied the drawstrings into a loose bow. How she bit her lip shyly made Stiles want to kiss her forehead and dote on this girl he hardly knew.

Where jealousy once flared, fondness now burned slow and warm. How badly he wanted to protect Paige frightened Stiles, because he hadn’t felt such a pull since he found Derek as a pup caught in a trap. They were in this together, he decided, the three of them. Paige was theirs to keep safe—they had to make sure she got home.

“We need to go,” he said, meeting Derek’s worried gaze. “But we’re miles from your house and I don’t think we can make it back with that thing still running around.”

“What was that, anyway?” Paige asked. She sniffled and wiped stubborn tears from her face. She was crying, not in the upset, hysterical way, but she was in pain. “Is that what’s been killing people?”

“Yeah,” Derek answered. “It is.”

“And it’ll kill us, too, if we don’t move,” Stiles added.

The hysteria came, though, despite its belated onset and nestled snug and choking in her throat. With a hand tightly over her mouth, she stared between Stiles and Derek, all but howling behind her palm. She doubled over at the waist, but before she could crash to her knees, Derek grabbed her around the waist and kept her standing. After a few wet sniffles, she cried, “I didn’t know. I didn’t _know_.”

Derek said, “It’s okay. We’ll take care of you,” and rubbed her back.

She nodded, so sincere in her belief, her sudden _trust_ in them, Stiles’ heart ached for her.

“Do you think we can make it to the root cellar?” he asked Derek, shouldering his bag of supplies. He rested his hands on his hips thoughtfully, scanning the surrounding shadows for any sign of the alpha’s return. The night was quiet, though; he couldn’t even hear Talia’s howls anymore.

“It’s not far,” Derek answered, obviously reserved.

Unable to afford the time to parse through Derek’s concerns, Stiles pushed the decision without preamble. “Let’s go, then. Should be that way, right?” And he waved off into the darkness until Derek nodded his agreement.

They walked.

Stiles took point, gripping the straps of his backpack until his knuckles were white and his hands ached. Over the crunching of dead leaves and broken twigs, Derek and Paige murmured softly to one another, Derek’s voice a soothing, rolling wave of vague reassurances, while Paige’s hitched a hiss or a whimper between praise and apologies. Something selfish writhed like an angry snake in Stiles’ gut to hear Derek speak to her so sweetly, but it was irrational and petty, and he knew it. Paige hurt, Derek helped her, and Stiles lead the way to safety. What it all meant for them was worthless to consider until they were on the other side.

“Here,” Stiles announced, before dashing towards the weathered, wooden doors. The rusted lock was more for show than security, and the place was remote enough that not even vagrants bothered to shelter there; he tossed it aside, and heaved open the doors. The hinges squealed, and they banged loudly when they slipped from Stiles’ grasp. “Go,” he said, ushering Derek and Paige towards the stairs. The wind picked up speed and brought faint howling with it. Once they were safely downstairs, Stiles grunted with the effort of yanking the doors shut, and nearly fell backwards down the stairs when his hand was nearly smashed between them.

Paige’s melodic voice drifted from the depths of the cellar. “How did you know about this place?”

“My family built it ages ago,” Derek explained. “Stiles and I came here a lot as kids.”

“It’s so weird that you’re friends,” she laughed.

Stiles stomped down the stairs, crashing their conversation. When he found them, Derek sat tucked into one of the many crevices within the woven web of roots. Paige lay in his lap, cradled, really, in his arms. Where he touched her, the veins of his hands darkened and pulsed, and with each passing moment, her smile became easier.

“He’s my best friend,” Derek said.

“You’re so different from one another,” she remarked, and she grinned at Stiles from Derek’s embrace. “I never imagined you close.”

“Good thing we are,” Stiles said, sitting so Paige lay between him and Derek. “Because Derek’s shit at first aid.”

She laughed. “Thank you,” she said. “For coming for me.”

“No problem,” Stiles answered, patting her knee. “We’ll get you home, soon.”

“Stiles, you’re hurt…”

He looked down to his shirt where crimson blossoms spread in a crooked line along his flank. The ache was a faint, far away feeling, a pain wholly removed despite its existence; he remembered how the alpha hit him. “I’m fine,” he dismissed. “Just rest for now, okay?"

Paige dropped off quickly, relaxing in Derek’s arms, her breath easy and steady. Her hands twitched every few moments, sometimes her shoes scraped the wooden floor, but neither roused her.

Silence fell over them like an early morning fog, and time plotted along agonizingly slow. It was easier to watch Paige than to face Derek. As dire as their situation was, Stiles could only tramp down his worries so far, and where they found themselves in a physical calm, Stiles quickly spiraled into emotional turmoil.

“What’s going to happen to her?” Stiles asked. He finally looked away from Paige’s serene, pale face to Derek’s faintly glowing eyes.

“I don’t know,” Derek admitted. “An alpha bite usually turns someone, but the shift should have happened already. It’s a full moon.”

“Did you even see the bite?” Stiles pushed. He pulled the hoodie zipper down just below her bra and eased the soft material from her shoulder to show him. Paige stirred, but Stiles shushed her back to sleep.

Wrinkling his nose, Derek said, “Smells wrong.”

“Dude, it _looks_ wrong.”

Paige suddenly convulsed, just a single hunching over, a powerful wave of tightened muscle and a choked hiccup. Stiles scooted back impulsively when she pushed herself out of Derek’s hold. On hands and knees, she heaved black goop that splattered beneath her. Viscous and foul, it spewed from her chapped lips until her retching faded into vague gagging. Trembling, she sat back on her knees and wiped her mouth with the hoodie sleeve. The hood fell back and black dribbled down her chin. “Oh, my God,” she whined. “What’s _happening_ to me? _Oh, my God_ …”

“Derek…”

“The Bite’s not taking,” the wolf said, horrified. “Why isn’t it taking?”

“What?” Paige whimpered.

“You were Bitten,” Derek said, trudging through a stammer. “You should turn, but you’re not. The Bite…it’s….”

“It’s _what_?” Stiles pushed.

“It kills you if it doesn’t take,” Derek whispered.

Paige doubled over and clutched her shoulder. “It hurts. Oh, my God, _it hurts_.”

Stiles snarled, “Derek, do the thing! Do the Goddamn thing!”

The wolf grabbed Paige’s hand and clutched it between his own, his veins darkening again. His eyes flared their brilliant amber, and his fangs descended with the effort.

Crawling to Paige’s side, Stiles sat on his knees as well. He yanked the zipper open the rest of the way, baring her chest and the spreading infection burning char-black trails beneath her skin. After prying her hand from the wound, he picked the tape with a fingernail and gently pulled the gauze back. The pads were no longer red, but black; swirls of pus white and mucus green, and a stench that brought Stiles to the verge of puking. “Fuck,” he breathed. “ _Fuck_. She needs a hospital.”

“What she needs is mercy.”

Stiles spun around, falling back on his hands, and watched Uncle Peter saunter down the stairs into the root cellar. His shirt was smeared with dirt and blood, and his eyes were twin sparks of blue in the gloom, but he seemed unharmed and unfazed.

“There has to be something we can do,” Stiles insisted.

Shaking his head, Uncle Peter said, “There isn’t. Just end her suffering.”

“Uncle Peter…”

Another wave of agony coursed through her, and Paige folded in half, wailing into worn floorboards. “I’m going to die, aren’t I? I’m going to die.”

“You’re not,” Stiles snapped. “You’re going to be okay. We just have to—”

Derek desperately gathered her to him, holding her tight and growling while he pulled more of her pain. Lines like midnight slithered up his neck, along his jaw and his cheek.

“There’s nothing to be done, Stiles,” Uncle Peter said. “Either the Bite takes, or it doesn’t.” He folded his arms across his chest and arched an eyebrow to Derek. “Handle it, Derek.”

“What?” Stiles shouted. “No!”

Paige cried, writhing in Derek’s arms.

“This is your mess,” Uncle Peter continued, heedless of Stiles’ horror and indignation. Instead, he towered over Derek, snarling low with barely concealed fangs.

Derek cowered beneath the scolding. Stiles had never seen him look so small or lost.

“You chose to disobey your alpha. You chose to meddle. This is your problem. Fix it.”

“Derek, don’t,” Stiles said. “You don’t have to do this. We can get her to a hospital. You’re fast. I can call my dad—”

“Shut up, Stiles!” Uncle Peter roared. “You may be Pack, but this is wolf business. Derek!”

Derek flinched.

“End it quickly, or let her suffer. She dies either way. You have to do right by her.”

“Derek,” Stiles pleaded.

But Paige pleaded, too, her anguished, broken cry of his name.

“Tell me what do to, Paige,” Derek whispered.

Shaking his head, Stiles said, “She’s in pain, Derek. She can’t give—”

“I can’t—I can’t take it anymore,” Paige groaned. “Please. I—it hurts so much. Derek…”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Derek croaked. “I didn’t—”

She hiccupped, “Please. Please, Derek.”

Derek sobbed brokenly, then clutched Paige tightly, pressing her face against his neck. A clawed hand snaked into her hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” And his apologies came with every inhale, every exhale, every soft growl. He squeezed his eyes shut and tears tracked his cheeks.

Paige twitched in his hold, then quickly started thrashing, but Derek kept holding her, kept _crushing_ her. Her cries faded into faint squeaks and tiny little gasps.

He couldn’t let it happen. “Derek, stop!” On his knees beside him, Stiles tugged Derek’s arms, clawed at his jacket with every ounce of strength he could muster, trying to loosen his grip, trying to let Paige fucking _breathe_. “Derek, you’re killing her! Stop!” The collar of his shirt tightened around his throat, and he yelped. Hauled away from Derek, he kicked and flailed, but the brush of Uncle Peter’s claws against the back of his neck made him pliant. “Derek, don’t…!”

Then, the crunch.

Stiles stopped fighting.

Derek stopped squeezing.

Paige stopped breathing.

Uncle Peter tossed Stiles aside, and, with cold indifference, took Paige from Derek’s limp arms. Then, he left with her, and Stiles was too stunned, too rooted, to stop him. His booted steps up the stairs were thunderous booms of finality.

Derek drew his knees to his chest and pressed his head against them. His ragged breaths filled the cellar, the wetness of grief and guilt and misery.

From his place stupidly sprawled on the floor, Stiles’ ears rang, his chest tightened, sparks flashed in the corners of his eyes. But, still reeling, he didn’t go to Derek.

Talia descended the stairs, quiet where Uncle Peter had been loud. Her gentle, maternal smile was at odds with her burning crimson eyes, the blood around her mouth and coating her hands. Gliding across the cellar with ethereal grace, she was regal despite her grimy, torn clothes, and knelt before her son. “Derek…”

“I did something. Something terrible,” Derek whimpered. He shied away from her at first, but soon leaned into her soft touch, how she brushed back his hair.

“I know,” Talia said.

“My eyes. They’re different.” Cold blue steel replaced warm amber when he opened his eyes.

“Different, but still beautiful,” Talia said. “Just like the rest of you.”

 

###

 

“Were you friends with her?” the Sheriff asked.

He stared at the ceiling so his dad could better adjust his tie. Stiles still hadn’t mastered a Windsor, and he didn’t want to half-ass his appearance. Not today, not in front of Paige’s family. “Sort of,” he said. “Not close, not like with Scott or, or Derek—” And he breathed through the rush of _sadness_ accompanying Derek’s name. “—but I knew her. We talked sometimes.”

“It’s very thoughtful of you to show your respects,” the Sheriff said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“I’ll be fine, Dad,” Stiles said. “I just need to do this, you know? On my own.”

With an understanding nod and parting hug, the Sheriff let him go.

The walk to the cemetery wasn’t a long one, familiar from dream and reality. Sleep-walking sometimes led him there, just aware enough to find his mother’s grave and curl up in the soft grass. Others, he sought her out in the light of day. He conveniently ignored how rarely he was truly alone in such ventures. It was easy to dismiss the wolves that followed him in his sadness.

Paige’s service was an intimate affair with only a smattering of friends and family, all mourning a life snuffed out too soon. Black clad with lowered heads and shaking shoulders, Stiles recognized a couple who were undoubtedly Paige’s parents. A young girl clung to the woman’s side—a sister Stiles didn’t know Paige had.

He drifted along the periphery of the service—close enough to hear the sermon but far enough to be ignored—and found a soft patch of grass on a nearby hill to sit. He twisted the bouquet of lilies he brought anxiously, the paper crinkling until it softened beneath his worrying hands.

When her body was found just off a hiking trail in the preserve, official reports declared Paige just another victim in a long line of animal attacks. Stiles could only imagine what Peter did to her for the authorities to reach such a conclusion, and righteous anger burned hot in his gut. The service he watched seemed so unnecessary, the tears and cries and wails drifting from the people surrounding the fresh grave so needless.

It was all so avoidable.

If only Peter hadn’t talked Derek into it…

If only Stiles had talked Derek out of it…

If only they had gotten her to a hospital…

…maybe her parents wouldn’t be mourning.

The priest snapped his Bible shut, and the casket was lowered into the ground. During its descent, the procession of Paige’s loved ones dropped single flowers to follow her body into the ground. He remembered the wake after his mother’s funeral, how everyone climbed into their cars and followed him and his dad back to their house; and with how those gathered trickled to the vehicles lining the cemetery’s entrance, Stiles assumed a similar service for Paige.

Her parents lingered longest, but custom dictated they lead the mourners away from the gravesite. So after kissed hands touched the headstone, they departed as well. The caravan left, but Stiles stayed.

Alone in the graveyard, he descended his hilltop perch and crossed the green green grass to Paige’s final resting place. He sat cross-legged at the edge of the square hole, beside the headstone. Paige was sixteen when she died, beloved daughter and sister, and Stiles traced her name with trembling fingertips.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” Stiles murmured, leaning his head against the cold granite. “You deserved so much better than what you got. I’m sorry it was just us with you in the end. You should have been with family. You should have been with people who loved you.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Stiles.”

He scrubbed his face of tears he hadn’t realized he shed. He shot to his feet, turning to meet Talia, who had no right to look so serene and sound so sweet. “You probably shouldn’t be here,” he said, brow furrowing with anger he couldn’t define or direct.

“It’s important for you to accept there was nothing you could do,” Talia continued. “Her body rejected the Bite. It’s unfortunate, but no one could have foreseen or prevented it. You need to understand that. It’s not your fault, and it’s not Derek’s; this isn’t a burden for you to bear.”

Turning away from her, he dropped the bouquet onto the other flowers piled atop Paige’s coffin. “Derek killed her,” he said. “I understand _that_ well enough.”

“Derek spared her a long, agonizing, and inevitable death,” Talia gently corrected. “He isn’t a murderer, Stiles. Our world, a world you’ve been happy to accept until now, isn’t so black and white.”

“He killed her,” he repeated helplessly. “I saw him kill her.”

Talia stood beside him and stroked his hair the way his mother used to, the way she often did for her own children. “What would you have done differently?”

“Taken her to a hospital,” Stiles answered.

“She would have suffered.”

“But her family could have been with her,” he insisted. “They could have said goodbye, they could have told her they loved her. Instead, she died alone and scared in some cellar in the middle of the woods.”

“She wasn’t alone,” Talia said. “She had you. And Derek.”

Sniffling, Stiles said, “We weren’t her friends.”

“You were, then, Stiles; right when she needed you to be.”

When Talia pulled him into a hug, Stiles didn’t fight her. Instead, he cried.

 

###

 

Sometimes Stiles’ hands were sticky with memories of blood and dirt. Sometimes iron filled his nose, and phantom decay twisted his stomach. He didn’t eat much; he slept less. Paige’s cries were imbedded in the corners of his mind, her pleas echoes filling the silence of the empty house, and the deafening snap that quieted her forever intrusively startled him at random.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Stiles stared listlessly at the pill bottles on his nightstand, an army of plastic tubes meant to guard his sleep. Twitchy and unable to hide his insomnia from his father, Stiles’ doctor prescribed them. With Melissa McCall’s encouragement, his father filled the prescriptions. Though he urged him to do so, his father was rarely around to make sure he took them.

Stiles hated them, but a glass of water stood beside the medication anyway.

He paced, each step quickening the next. He tugged his hair, he chewed his lip, he bit his fingernails, each tick more erratic than the last. Eventually, he screamed and punched the wall. His knuckles bruised and the plaster cracked. The ache was good, though; it grounded him, and he pressed hard into the blood welling beneath his pale skin to drive the pain deep.

Movement beyond his window caught his attention—the flutter of a shadow—and when he looked up from his hand, a familiar shape stood in the dark yard. His heart throbbed in his chest as he traced the outline of Derek’s hair, his shoulders, the lines of his hands in his pockets. Then, he unlocked the latch and returned to bed.

No sooner had he climbed beneath the blankets did the window open and Derek slid into the room. “Hey,” Stiles said, still worsening the bruise on his hand.

“Hey,” Derek answered. He stood awkwardly by the window, a nervous energy clinging to him. Jerky, as if he was ready to bolt at the first sign of rejection.  
  
Sighing, Stiles asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” Derek murmured. “I’m worried about you.”

A small hum and a nod. “Yeah, okay,” Stiles said. He bit his lip and nodded again, then forced himself to actually look at Derek. It was just as painful as he expected, because despite what he’d seen, Derek was still stunning in his beauty, still adoring in how he looked at Stiles, and Stiles still wanted him. Derek looked just as broken as Stiles felt. “I’m worried about you, too,” he quietly confessed.

Derek shifted nervously, dropped his head and said, “Yeah, um. I get that.”

“Are you alright?” Stiles hedged, absently scratching his cheek.

“No,” the wolf whispered. “I’m not.”

“I’m not, either.”

When Derek closed in on him, Stiles didn’t know whether the emotion heating his cheeks was relief or indignation, but he stared at his comforter instead of the werewolf. It meant he didn’t have to ask Derek to come close, but also meant he’d have to tell Derek to get away, if it was what he wanted; and he didn’t think he could do it. He didn’t think he could ever do it. From the corner of his eye, he saw Derek walk careful fingers along the orange bottles’ white caps: four in all.

“Trouble sleeping?” Derek asked. He hovered near the edge of the bed, but how he still wore his jacket and shoes spoke more of his apprehension than either his tone or his face.

Huffing a weak laugh, Stiles said, “Always.”

“Are you taking them?” Derek plucked a bottle and studied the label with a pained frown.

“I’m trying not to,” Stiles sighed, letting his gaze drift to the chemical compound meant to quiet his mind. “But it’s hard. I’m not—I’m not in control of my thoughts anymore. I can’t…” He stopped and fisted his blanket. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Yeah,” Derek vaguely agreed.

“I can’t stop thinking about _you_.”

Derek’s expression crumpled, and he put the bottle back with its fellows. “What I did—” He swallowed audibly, but his words were still waves breaking on a shore of shame. “What you saw me do—”

“Don’t,” Stiles brutally interrupted. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“ _Stiles._ ”

He took Derek’s hand with his bruised, aching one, and the wolf’s thumb lightly traced his sore knuckles. The once beige leather around _SHADOW_ was stained rust-red with Paige’s blood. Stiles doubted it would ever come out. “You don’t have to explain, okay? Not yet. It’s still…raw. We don’t—just not yet, okay? Not now.”

“What, then?”

“How’s your wolf?”

Derek pressed his knees against the edge of the mattress when Stiles tugged his hand. “Frazzled,” he said. “A little unhinged.”

“You should have come sooner,” Stiles said.

“…I didn’t think you wanted me anymore. After what I did…”

And Stiles’ grief suddenly transcended a new dimension and unfathomable depth. Every fiber of his being, every piece of his essence bucked violently against the notion of never wanting Derek, and reason sank beneath fresh, hungry desperation. “Derek,” he whispered. “No. Never.” He tugged Derek’s shirt until he leaned over him, and kissed him soft and gentle. Derek’s answering whimper just hurt him more. “You’re still my Shadow,” he said. “You’ll always be my Shadow, my favorite wolf pup.”

“Stiles, I’m sorry,” Derek whispered.

“You don’t owe me an apology,” Stiles said, stroking Derek’s cheek.

Though his breath stuttered against his lips, instead of arguing, Derek said, “You smell hurt. You smell tired. Will you let me take care of you?”

“Just get undressed and come to bed,” Stiles offered.

Resting their foreheads together, Derek asked, “Are you sure?”

“I’ll always want you here.”

“Okay.” With a parting kiss, Derek pulled away and undressed. After folding his clothes and tucking them under Stiles’ bed, he followed Stiles beneath the covers and arched into each of his tender little touches. His hand drifted down Stiles’ side, but stopped abruptly when Stiles hissed and flinched away. “What…?” But he leaned over Stiles and rucked up his shirt before Stiles could explain. Then Derek’s fingertips grazed the bandages along this flank, one where each of the alpha’s claws briefly dug into him. “I forgot you were hurt,” he rasped.

“I did, too,” Stiles playfully agreed. “They were too deep for bandages, so my dad took me to get stitches. Super annoying and still a bit tender.”

“Here. Let me…”

Derek’s veins darkened, shadowy paths ebbing up his arm to disappear into his elbow, and the overarching, constant, bone-deep ache Stiles had endured since Paige’s death finally eased. “It’s going straight to my head,” Stiles teased.

“That’s okay,” Derek said. “Is it helping?”

“Mm-hm.”

The wolf moved until he was a solid line of warmth against Stiles’ side, and Stiles leaned into him, exhaustion settling into his limbs like sinking to the bottom of a pool. “Hey, Derek,” he said, teetering on a drowsy precipice.

“Hmm?”

“Show me your eyes?”

Derek frowned, brows arching wounded and ashamed. “Stiles…”

“Please.”

But he blinked anyway, and electric blue flashed against his natural, kaleidoscopic irises; so different from the soft lantern-yellow Stiles was used to, but just as breath-taking. Derek showed them for only a heartbeat, just a cosmic moment, then let the color fade.

“Holy shit, Der,” Stiles breathed, tracing his cheekbones.

“I know,” Derek lamented, ducking his face against Stiles’ shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

Chuckling, Stiles used both hands to card through the soft strands of Derek’s hair. “No,” he said. “No, don’t be sorry. You’re gorgeous. Your eyes are still amazing. _You’re_ still amazing. God, if only you knew.”

“Stiles, I’m in love with you.”

“Oh, my God, Derek.” Stiles pushed at his shoulder until he lifted his head, then he hauled him into a devouring, needy kiss. Derek responded in kind, leaning more atop Stiles and wrapping around him. “I love you, too,” Stiles said between brushes of lips, “I love you so much.”

“How…?” Derek searched Stiles expression for an answer to a question he hadn’t fully asked, but Stiles understood just the same. “After what I’ve—”

“It’s not black and white,” Stiles said. “I know it’s not. It’s hard, is all. It’s just hard. But we’ll figure it out, okay? I love you, Derek. We’ll figure it out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1: [Prompt 27: Binoculars.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6262696)  
> Part 2: [Moonlit Run](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6541258)
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr: [foxtricks](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)


End file.
